


Americana is for Lovers

by ccbytheseashore



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Americana, Developing Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, Road Trips, Sexual Content, monstrous abuses against perfectly good bedframes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 15:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10129133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccbytheseashore/pseuds/ccbytheseashore
Summary: Please tell me you are still alive,read Steve's text.In Virginia, Bucky replied.The hell are you doing in Virginia?Would you believe me if I said trying to find a foam sculpture of Stonehenge?Tony said to make sure his car comes back in once piece. Please don't shoot each other.Clint and Bucky set off on an adventure to find an infamous work of Americana history, but find literally everything else (including love) instead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleredreadinghood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleredreadinghood/gifts).



> This was really meant to be a mini fic, like for a mini-bang, but once again, I've forgotten what word limits mean. 
> 
> This work is, as always, dedicated to my beta reader and gal Friday, Katya. You are the love of my life, and everything hateful written about anything was probably something that you said once. Probably this weekend, actually. Thank you for spending your evenings helping me; one day, maybe I'll actually write something you ship. 
> 
> Thank you also to my artist, [bvckyboy](bvckyboy.tumblr.com)! I legitimately gave them about 1500 words of this and they gave me my dream header and the best to boot. Thank you for picking my story, and for all of your patience. You are the best! 
> 
> Lastly, thanks to mollynoble for organizing and coordinating this event! 
> 
> Any mistakes are mine, title is a joke, author is exhausted, Chapter 2 is just a bitty epilogue because I found out exciting news not long after this was started. 
> 
> Love, CC

  
  


>

“Goddammit!” Clint shouted into the sky. He kicked at a rock and swung around, rage contorting his features. “It's not here!”

Bucky pulled his sleeve further down his wrist, very conscious of their predicament: Clint was making a spectacle and people were staring.

“We drove twelve hours!” Clint shrieked. A small family looked at him with expressions of deep concern, exchanged glances, and quickly looked away. A group of teenagers fiddled with their phones, but Bucky could feel their gazes shifting to them.

“If any of these kids take our picture I'm going to leave you to rot on the side of 95. And not the good side,” Bucky hissed. He pushed his hair out of his face, sweat beading on his forehead but unable to evaporate for the heavy, sticky humidity. What he wouldn't give to be able to lose his hoodie...

“This is ridiculous,” Clint muttered, scrubbing his hands over his face. Clint was verging on hysterical. He jabbed Bucky hard in the chest with a pointed finger, “I am tired. The only coffee I have had in hours came from a gas station, and it's not here!”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It was a foam sculpture, Barton.”

“It was Foamhenge!” Clint roared, “And it was supposed to be here!” Clint had gotten the idea in his head earlier the night before. There had been a show, something on the Travel Channel or something, counting down the best roadside attractions in the United States. Clint, who seemed to exist solely for the purposes of consuming what others might consider to be the dredges of American culture, was instantly hooked. And Bucky, who wasn't so much watching television as he was sitting stock still on the sofa next to Clint, waiting for the moment when Clint realized that his knee was resting beside Bucky's, didn't stand a chance. Clint dragged his ass out of bed at hours Bucky had forgotten existed and Bucky slept through the whole drive – he couldn't be blamed for this.

Bucky tapped at his phone. “Says it was closed a few weeks ago. They're building a state park instead.”

“Who needs a state park if there isn't Foamhenge?”

Bucky hummed noncommittally and continued to scroll through his phone. He had 15 missed calls and a voicemail. “Could be nice to see the Natural Bridge.”

Clint looked incensed. He opened his mouth to protest, but something in Bucky's deep frown made him pause. “It's a damned rock bridge, Barnes. There are bridges all over New York. Don't need to drive to goddamn Virginia to see a bridge just 'cause it's made of rocks.”

_Please tell me you are still alive,_ read Steve's text.

_In Virginia,_ Bucky replied. 

_The hell are you doing in Virginia?_

_Would you believe me if I said trying to find a foam sculpture of Stonehenge?_

_Tony_ _said to make sure his car comes back in once piece._ _Please don't shoot each other._

Bucky shook his head and turned off his screen. Clint was pacing.

“Least it's pretty here,” Bucky said thoughtfully. He wasn't sure he had ever been to Virginia before, at least not this part. Sure, he couldn't breathe right for the moisture in the air, and his clothes clung and chafed at his skin, but it was green and quiet. He wished he could at least push his sleeves up.

“Least it's pretty,” Clint mimicked in a pitchy voice. He kicked at a rock on the ground. “I need a drink.”

Bucky secretly agreed, but only because being stuck in a car all day made him feel cagey. He knocked his shoulder against Clint's. “Let's get some food first, yeah?

Clint sighed. “Fine. Stark's paying.”

=

“So where d'you wanna go from here?” Clint asked around a mouthful of pancakes.

Bucky took a sip of coffee. The taste made him recoil. “It's your parade, Barton. We go where you wanna,” he said. He overturned the sugar canister into the chipped white mug. He found that he wasn't ready to go back to the stale heat and noise of the city either, but he wasn't sure how to ask Clint for that. He glanced out the window at the lush Virginia greenery and felt a tug of longing to wander into the countryside and forget that other people existed for a few days, enjoy the sound of silence. Silence and maybe Clint's rambling.

Clint took another bite of his pancakes. “I'm not ready to go back yet.”

A quiet hope bloomed in Bucky's chest. “So we don't go back yet,” Bucky said casually. He bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from smiling.

“Ain't never been on a real road trip,” Clint said thoughtfully.

“Weren't you a carnie?” Bucky asked wryly.

Clint chuckled. “Turns out crime is on a tight schedule.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “So we go on a road trip.”

Clint pulled out his phone and was quiet a moment. Syrup dripped sticky-sweet from the stubble that Clint hadn't shaved that morning, and Bucky itched to wipe it away with his thumb.

A few moments later, a crooked smile spread across Clint's face and he looked at Bucky with dancing, dangerous eyes. “Alright. I'll figure out where to go next, then.”

Bucky shrugged, but privately he was more than a little concerned. Clint without a plan landed them here; Clint with a plan was probably not worse, but the idea of not knowing what to expect sat heavy in his stomach. “So long as you don't get me arrested, we're fine. Sam said he wasn't bailing me out of trouble again.”

“Then we'll call Steve.”

Bucky snorted.  “Never call Steve to bail you out. He'll either leave your ass there overnight or get hauled in swinging himself.” Bucky tossed back the last of the terrible coffee – somehow both bitter and weak at the same time? – and threw a  wad of cash onto the table to cover the bill. “C'mon. Got someplace I wanna show you.” 

=

The overgrown fence on the side of the highway greeted you with a large colorful windmill with a sign that read 'Enchanted Castle Studio Tour Entrance', although Bucky knew from his quick internet search that the guy who owned the place didn't do public tours. But this was the guy who made Foamhenge, and he wanted Clint to see the place. From the street, you could see a 15-foot statue of King Kong looming over the wooden wall. If you stood on tiptoe to peer over, the entire yard was full of sculpted roadside ephemera. 

Clint had been particularly taken with the fiberglass replicas of the Avengers. All of the original team stood together, but a few notable additions were present as well. Wanda, with her slick new uniform and translucent red orbs of glass in her sculpted hands, looked lovingly sculpted. Clint, however, had his eyes on a prize.

“He could replace it easy! And it's not like anyone's using 'em, they're just sitting in the yard.”

“Clint, you cannot jump the fence.”

“Sure I can,” Clint said with a grin. He grabbed the top of the wood and pushed himself up effortlessly. He held up one arm theatrically and beamed at Bucky before letting himself drop back onto the grass. 

“Not questioning your ability to jump the fence, dumbass. But I swear, if you get arrested for trespassing, I'm not gonna bail you out.”

“I'd bail you out,” Clint said, looking put out. He was still peering longingly at the fence.

“Only reason I'd get arrested these days is if I was doing something dumb with you. So you'd be in there with me. Then what would we do?”

But Clint had seemed to have made up his mind and was vaulting the fence with practiced ease. Bucky threw his hands up and looked around them, hoping like hell that nobody was around to catch his _literal crime-fighting_ companion breaking the law for a foam-and-fiberglass replica of Captain America's shield that he could probably find for _pennies_ on the internet.

Moments later, Clint reappeared at his side. He didn't have the shield, but the goofy grin on his face said that he'd still achieved some only-known-to-Clint objective.

=

“It's not funny.”

Hours later, Bucky did not feel this road trip was going in the right direction. How was he still in terrible Americana hell?

“I need to tag this. What do I tag this?” Clint said between gasps. He was bent over, clutching his stomach as he howled with laughter.

Bucky grasped for the phone. “You don't tag it anything,” he said between his teeth. Clint danced out of reach, still typing into his phone.

“A-a-a-and posted,” Clint said with a satisfied grin. “Shame you didn't smile, this would do wonders for our PR.” He turned the screen towards Bucky.

The image on the screen was Bucky, definitely not smiling, scowling deeply as he looked up at a foam depiction of General Stonewall Jackson. General Stonewall Jackson, whose missing left arm had been fitted with a 15-foot cybernetic replacement.

Clint knocked his shoulder against Bucky's. “This might be worth missing Foamhenge.”

Bucky sighed.

=

After making their way through the rest of Natural Bridge, Virginia's collection of horrors, Bucky was dying to stop and take a break from the incessant background noise of small-town tourists. After having dragged Bucky through a so-called 'Safari Park' full of the world's saddest llamas, several of whom spat on Tony's shiny new Range Rover, Clint finally seemed willing to call it a day. As luck would have it, though, the only hotel with an availability for that night was also the only hotel within 30 miles, so of course Clint insisted that it was haunted.

“Look at it, Buck!” Clint looked wildly around the lobby as if to demonstrate the haunting features, “Have you seen _The Shining?_ Of course you haven't seen _The Shining_.Trust me, though.”

Bucky had seen _The Shining,_ and the striking similarities of the large and sweeping historic building overlooking a scenic and mountainous landscape was not lost on him. He didn't say as much, though, instead opening one of the pamphlets that the concierge had pushed into his hands. “Says here the place burned down in '63. Whole thing had to be rebuilt.”

Clint gave him a pointed look.

Bucky groaned inwardly, wanting desperately to throttle Clint. Hadn't this been his idea? Hadn't he dragged them all the way out here without a plan? How did he manage to delight in a cyborg Civil War general and entire garden of uncannily creepy foam sculptures, but not a potentially haunted hotel? Shouldn't that just be the cherry on top of this weird ass sundae? “The only other room available this short notice is thirty miles away on the other side of those mountains. Unless you want to sleep in a cabin–”

“Not a chance, that's an entire horror genre,” Clint cut in.

“Then haunted hotel it is,” Bucky said decidedly. The hotel really was immaculate, beautiful and classic with shining floors and meticulous details. Bucky, with his grubby travel clothes and messy top-knot, felt instantly out of place surrounded by high ceilings and antique furniture. He wanted to be behind a closed door just so he could _breathe_ again. He turned abruptly on his heel and stalked towards the stairs.

Clint snatched the room key from the concierge who had been valiantly attempting to appear busy and oblivious to their disagreement, and had to jog to catch up.

The room was small, a little dated but still bright and pleasant, with two double beds and a large window that overlooked large trees, lush greenery, and in the distance, a beautiful mountain range. Bucky tossed his bag on the bed closest to the door and turned to survey the room, eyes jumping from the windows to the door to the fire emergency plan sticker on the wall, immediately assessing the room for vulnerabilities and making a tactical plan. Clint went straight to the window and started craning his neck for sightlines.

“Places like this make me nervous. Just swiped an Amex Black Card and I still feel like a carnie kid picking pockets for lunch money,” Clint said after a few beats of silence. Bucky darted a glance at Clint, who was still looking out the window. “Probably doesn't help that we didn't pack anything nice,” Clint added.

“Why do we need something nice?” Bucky asked. He felt the tension in his shoulders that had just started to subside creep back in. When Clint had suggested the trip, Bucky hadn't really planned on being gone longer than a day. He had an extra pair of jeans and another henley, clean socks and underwear, but nothing else. Certainly nothing that passed for nice.

“No reason. Just, they probably expect us to get dressed up for dinner.”

Bucky groaned and fell back onto his bed.

=

After dinner had been cleared away, they were served a plate of chocolate cake with two spoons.

“So good,” Clint mumbled through his mouthful of cake. Clint sat back in his chair and looked around. They had both had drinks with dinner, so they were pleasantly buzzed. The earlier stress of the day had melted away like the freshly buttered biscuits they had devoured before their entrees. “Not a bad place,” Clint said appreciatively.

Clint took a generous heaping of cake and thrust it at Bucky. To Clint's delight, Bucky leaned forward and took the bite from the outstretched spoon.

“Mmm,” Bucky agreed. “Still haunted?”

“Probably. But the food is good, so...,” Clint trailed off with a shrug. “Hope the wine in the room is still cold.”

Bucky had felt so high strung when they arrived that he hadn't noticed the wine. He told Clint as much, and Clint grinned.

“Chocolate-covered fruit, too. Think it might be a couple's thing,” he said, gesturing around the room. The candlelight that Bucky had taken for atmospheric was suddenly something completely different. He considered the rose petals scattered across the table.

“Might explain the oysters?” he suggested.

Clint grimaced. “That a thing even in your day?” he asked.

“Not that I could afford it,” he said with a small smile.

Clint chuckled. “Bet you had all the _dames_ anyway, huh?” 

“Oh, sure,” Bucky said breezily. He leaned forward. “Don't need fancy food to show a someone a good time,” he winked.

“That so?” Clint asked. He cocked his head at the band in the corner. “Wanna dance, then?”

Bucky knew there was a time when he was shameless, but he only remembered that in pieces. Some of the memories were more like shadows. Steve told him that he used to be a swell dancer, though, and he was tired of not knowing.

“So long as you don't step on my feet,” he replied with a hell of a lot more confidence than he felt. It felt like a dare, but Clint made him want to be bold. Bucky swallowed a lump in his throat and offered his elbow.

Clint led him across the room towards the band, where a few of the tables had been cleared and several couples were already swaying with the music.

“Gonna show me those moves?” Clint teased.

Bucky closed his eyes, willing himself to remember how this worked. He remembered dance halls with bright lights and girls with waxy lipstick, the warmth of another body in his arms. He could remember the curve of a woman's hips, the smell of her perfume... Clint elbowed him in the side. 

“Breathe, Buck. Nothing to it, see?” He pulled Bucky close, a warm line against Bucky's front, and began to move them slowly.

“Lot more simple than in my day,” Bucky said. He could feel the rumble of Clint's warm chuckle against him and he tried to steady his breathing.

“Not about showing off,” Clint said quietly. He was humming along to the song, something Clint would probably call 'classic', but Bucky didn't recognize it.

“Woulda liked to show you anyway,” Bucky murmured. Clint adjusted the hand he had on Bucky's waist, sliding it into the dip of his lower back and pulling him flush.

“It's fine, Buck. This is just fine.”

=

It seemed like Clint and Bucky were the only ones in the hotel who had planned on sleeping that night, because not an hour after they crawled under the covers, the bed in the next room began to slam into the wall.

Bucky sat up with alarm, and Clint followed a moment later, both of them staring at the wall as it became clear that the slamming was very... rhythmic. 

Bucky banged his flesh-and-blood hand against the wall a few time, but their neighbors seemed too preoccupied to notice. Clint snorted out a laugh before schooling his face as he looked back at Bucky, then shrugged and removed his hearing aids.

“Fuck you, Barton!” Bucky shouted, and because he knew Clint couldn't hear him, he threw one of the extra pillows from his bed at Clint's back.

He retrieved it almost immediately, though, so he could try to smother out the noise.

Failing that, though, he figured he could always smother the neighbors.

=

Clint woke up shortly after the sun the next morning and declared that they needed to hit the road to their next destination, seeming impervious to Bucky's murderous glare as he quickly gathered their things and swept out of the room. The other hotel patrons seemed less impervious, and several couples shrank back from Bucky as they made their way out of the lobby.

They'd been driving for about an hour, if one could call being in standstill traffic on interstate 95 _driving_. Bucky had attempted to sleep, but Clint seemed to be taking singular pleasure in singing along with the radio as loudly as he could, despite the fact that the only stations they could pick up on this hellish stretch of interstate were indecipherable strains of country music mostly hidden in static. This was one of Clint's party tricks: Clint could conjure music from thin air, and he always knew all of the words. He sang along to jingles on the television, to the opening tunes on the evening news, to every song on every station, and usually, Bucky found this charming.

Today, though, he was fantasizing about throwing himself under the nearest 18-wheeler. He was pretty sure he would survive; he'd done it before, when the truck was moving much faster. Still, anything other than sitting in this traffic, sweating his balls off, and listening to Clint croon along with another poor bastard who had lost his dog, his wife, and his truck would be a definite improvement. The Range Rover had perfectly good air conditioning, but Clint insisted that you could only rock out with the windows down and wind in your hair. At this rate, though, they were going so slow that even Clint could probably walk to wherever they were going faster than driving there, so there was no wind, just the heavy, humid Virginia summer air and Clint hollering. Bucky needed something– _anything_ – to do, or things were going to get dire.

“Where the hell did you put my cigarettes?” _More dire_ , his brain corrected.

“They're bad for you,” Clint sing-songed. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel. Bucky dug his hands under the seat, in the plastic corners and crevices of the door.

“So's a bunch of things,” Bucky said absently, “Where'd you put them?”

Clint must have felt Bucky's distress, because he sighed heavily and reached over his head, revealing a compartment that closed nearly flush to the roof of the SUV. “Out the window at least,” Clint pleaded.

Bucky shook his hair out of his face and lit a cigarette, inhaling gratefully. He reclined slightly in the passenger seat and propped his feet onto the dashboard. The familiarity of the motions– raising the cigarette to his lips between shaking fingers, measuring the grip strength of his metal hand on the delicate paper– eased the tightness in his chest the tiniest bit. Steve would tell him that was the nicotine, but Bucky knew what it was. The itch of anxiety sometimes became too much, and he couldn't settle into his skin. He sometimes found comfort in the feeling of his fingernails on the soft meat of his palm, just sharp enough to sting but not enough to puncture the skin. He liked the cigarettes because they gave him something to _do._

Bucky used to shoot things, but smoking was somehow more socially acceptable. He inhaled slowly, held the smoke for a long moment, and exhaled sharply out the window.

“Disgusting,” Clint pulled a face.

More acceptable to everyone except Clint, who apparently didn't give a damn what anyone thought about shooting things.

“Where're we even going?” Bucky asked.

“It's a surprise,” Clint said. Clint had had a stupid smile on his face since he woke Bucky up that morning. Bucky, who had only managed to force an hour or so of sleep because of the late-night amorous adventures of their neighbors, was decidedly not in the mood for surprises, but he kept his mouth shut.

Mostly.

“Better be a good surprise,” he grumbled.

=

It wasn't a good surprise.

It was after lunch time before they finally stopped. Bucky was just about to insist that Clint just take the next exit so they could eat something (and so he could surreptitiously pop into a convenience store to buy another pack of cigarettes – he had started chainsmoking about an hour into the drive, which did not amuse Clint at all, and he was out) when Clint pulled off of the interstate. There were about a dozen different fast food places and several choices for gas stations, but Clint continued driving until they were on a quiet country road. Purple thistle and black-eyed susans grew in the ditches along the side of the road and a small breeze had picked up, blowing Bucky's hair off of his face as he leaned his temple against the frame of the open window.

Clint pulled off at a small clearing with several small structures. White picket fences surrounded a parking lot marked for _Visitors,_ and Clint parked the Range Rover at the far edge of the lot, away from other vehicles. Bucky got out and stretched his arms above his head. It was shaded and much cooler than the previous day had been, so he luxuriated in the movements, loosening muscles that had long gone stiff from being cooped up in the SUV all day.

“This way,” Clint said, pocketing his phone and starting off towards a tall brick building in the distance. Bucky followed along a few steps behind Clint, down a path that cut across the grounds. There were a few trees, but they were mostly surrounded by well-manicured lawn. A few people were wandering on the grounds, taking pictures of groups of friends in front of the building or the gardens, but it was mostly quiet. Clint cut around the building towards a small path between a few hedges marked _Cemetery._ The hell was he playing at? Bucky picked up his pace a bit, walking just behind Clint as they traversed a set of stairs into an open clearing.

There was only one grave marker, a bit off in the distance near a post-and-wire fence. Bucky looked at Clint, who had pulled his phone out again. Bucky shook his head and started walking towards the grave.

ARM OF STONEWALL JACKSON

MAY 3, 1963

Bucky frowned. Just his _arm? “_ Clint?” he called.

Clint came jogging over, a grin on his tanned face and his blonde hair mussed. He had his phone held up like he was taking a picture. “What d'you think? Pretty nuts, huh?”

Bucky took a hearty breath, trying to find stillness so he didn't haul off and punch Clint on the grounds of a National Park. “Is this a joke to you?” he asked, maybe a bit more shrilly than he would have liked.

Clint started to speak, but Bucky cut him off. “You're an ass, Barton.” He stalked off to the side of the clearing where a patch of flowers was growing. He pulled a few and brought them back to the grave. He may not have agreed with the guy's politics on well... anything, but the poor bastard lost his arm, they gave it its own gravestone, and now dipshits like Clint Barton were visiting it for laughs.

“C'mon, Buck, it's funny!” Clint said, punching Bucky lightly on the arm. The metal one. The one that Bucky lost in a war almost seventy years prior. A look of horror dawned on Clint's face. “Aw, Buck. Aw, no, man, I didn't mean it like that,” he said quickly. He reached for Bucky's hand, but Bucky pulled away.

“No? That's funny, 'cause I coulda sworn that you were _just_ taking a picture of this,” Bucky said tersely.

“Because of yesterday! With the foam? Aw, hell, that too,” Clint rubbed a hand through the short hair on the back of his head. “I futzed up, huh?”

Bucky closed his eyes and blew out a breath.

Clint pulled his phone out again and began to walk back towards the brick building. “I'm gonna fix this,” he said confidently, tapping quickly on the screen with his thumbs. “You'll like this next bit.”

=

Carl's was apparently a piece of local history; the sign said _since 1947,_ which gave Clint pause, but Bucky put him out of his misery with a quick knock to the back of the head. “Never be able to leave my apartment if I got upset every time I saw something younger than me, you mook.” He pulled a few crisp bills from his wallet and handed them to Clint. “Now go buy me a vanilla cone.”

Bucky sat on a concrete block not far from the long and winding line and stretched out a bit in the sun. Clint had tossed him a hat and sunglasses as a bit of a disguise, but he wasn't wearing his gloves and Clint was still... well, Clint.

“They only have three flavors!” Clint shouted to Bucky. “How the hell do they only have three flavors?”

Bucky shook his head and lay back on the block. He was getting comfortable when a gentle voice got his attention.

“'Scuse me?” the voice asked. Bucky sat up. “I don't wanna bother you, but um...,” the kid paused. They looked about college age, probably one of the students from the local campus. “Can you sign this for me?” they asked quietly.

Bucky's eyes widened.

“I'm sorry to bother you, it's just that you're my hero,” they said quickly. The kid brushed their short hair out of their face. “You don't have to, though, I understand.”

Bucky took a deep breath. “You got a camera on that phone?” The kid grinned. Bucky gestured for them to stand next to him and leaned in. “Alright, ready?” Bucky put on the best smile he could muster and the kid snapped the photo.

“Thanks so much,” they said excitedly. Bucky took the pen that they offered and signed the notebook in their hands, drawing a quick doodle of his domino mask and star. The kid looked delighted.

“Hang out for a sec and Hawkeye'll be over,” Bucky said. Clint was in a heated discussion with the cashier about the merits of taking plastic instead of cash. Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Was gonna say that it's less conspicuous than me sitting here alone, but Barton's a moron, apparently.”

Clint wandered back a moment later, Bucky's vanilla in one hand and a towering monstrosity of mixed flavors in the other. “Make a friend?” he asked, handing Bucky's frozen custard over with a nod to the kid. Clint held his hand to shake. “Clint."

They looked ready to vibrate out of their socks. “Jo. Huge fan! Can I get a picture?”

Clint slung his free arm around Jo and smiled his most winning smile. “Sure thing, Jo. Buck, take a picture!” Jo handed their phone over to Bucky, who dutifully snapped the photo.

“Thanks so much!” Jo said brightly as they walked away.

“Make good choices!” Clint called to their retreating back.

“You're ridiculous,” Bucky said.

Clint hummed and started to eat his custard.

=

Bucky stared up at the vast expanse of sky. Even with the light pollution, even with the streetlight streaming down overhead as dangled his legs from the railing outside of their motel room, he felt like he could see every single star in the universe. Certainly more than he could see in New York.

He wondered if he'd ever noticed the stars when he wasn't himself. He didn't remember.

He took a drag of his cigarette. The embers burned and flickered. He exhaled the smoke slowly, savoring the small noises from the town. The warm day had settled into a stifling humid night, so wet he could barely breathe and the constant background hum of cicadas had started to sound like the summer heat itself. The snatches of noise that he could hear from the televisions in the rooms behind him mingled with the music and laughter from the sports bar across the parking lot, which seemed to mostly be full of college kids at this time of night.

He took one last drag and stubbed the butt out on the concrete as he stood up and brushed off his jeans. Clint had slipped out, said he was going to hit the bar for a drink or two, but he'd been gone for nearly an hour.

The bar was jam-packed with people. Bucky took a deep breath, centering himself before he waded into the mass. Clint was usually easy enough to find if he just...

_There._

Clint had a tendency to draw a crowd. He was a rowdy drinker, prone to antics that either endeared the locals or got his ass kicked. Bucky couldn't claim to be much better; at least Clint usually erred on the side of charming. Tonight, he seemed to be behaving himself, smiling amiably at the group of young women who had settled closest to him on the barstools. When he saw Bucky, his face split into a grin.

“There's my best guy!” he shouted, beckoning Bucky over. “Ladies, this is my pal Bucky. You be sweet to him, you hear?” He gave Bucky an exaggerated wink.

Bucky rolled his eyes and squeezed between Clint and one of his new friends to wave down the bartender. The place was so loud it was a miracle that he managed to make a drink order at all. The bartender, a beleaguered twenty-something with her shirt mostly unbuttoned and her hair in a ponytail, slid him a pint. He gestured for Clint's tab and left a stack of bills, enough to more than cover the tab. The bartender went to get his change and he shook his head. She smiled gratefully and poured him a shot of tequila. He'd probably need it. He toasted her and tipped it back.

Clint leaned his elbows back against the bar and grinned at Bucky. He looked so much younger than Bucky was used to seeing him, but maybe that was because he was smiling easily out here, surrounded by all these warm, open people instead of their typical tightly held, flinty eyed New Yorkers.

“Havin' a nice night?” Clint asked.

Bucky shrugged. “Nice to see you haven't gotten into a pissing contest with the locals. No darts in this place?”

Clint shook his head. “Nah, nothing fun here but college kids and booze. Didn't reckon you'd like to pull me out of a fistfight either,” he said with a mischievous smirk and a flick of his eyes to Bucky, “Unless you're up for a fight?”

“You still gonna bail me out?”

Clint made a thoughtful noise. One of the girls, a beautiful dame with thick thighs and the prettiest mouth Bucky'd ever seen, leaned in close to whisper in Clint's ear. Clint grinned wickedly and put an arm around her waist, pulling her close enough that her ample bosom was pressed to his chest. Bucky's stomach rolled. He took a heavy swig of his beer.

“Aw, I love this one!” Clint shouted, indicating the music with a pointed finger outstretched to the ceiling. He stood up, taking his new friend with him. They made it out to a cleared space on the dance floor and Clint turned back towards the bar. “Come on, Buck, we'll teach you how to dance to real music!” The song was loose and swingy with twangy guitars and a slow beat march rhythm. Clint sang the words into the girl's ear, pulling her close to him in a loose hold and swaying his hips, punctuating the lyrics with a filthy dip of his hips and clever, wandering hands. The girl threw her head back and laughed, her voice lovely and jangly.

An odd, clawing feeling settled itself deep inside Bucky's chest. Clint was dancing with that girl, but his eyes were boring through Bucky as he sang.

The lyrics tumbled off of his wicked chapped-lip smile close to the pretty gal's soft pale neck, his blue eyes never leaving Bucky's. Bucky turned away and hastily finished his beer, the previous night's events in the hotel dining room replaying in his mind. He felt ill.

When the song ended, there was scattered applause, but Bucky was already halfway to the door, the thought of Clint's hands on that pretty girl while they danced making his stomach feel sour.

“Bucky!” Clint shouted after him. Bucky pushed his way through the crowd and out into the humid night air. “Bucky, wait.” Clint followed him out and looked at him questioningly.

“You smell like a bar,” Bucky said as coolly as he could muster.

“You smell like an ashtray,” Clint retorted. “Thought I threw the rest of those away.”

Bucky made a noncommittal noise.

“Aw, what's wrong, Buck. Did you wanna dance with Jenna? I've known a lot of great Jennas in my day. Real... bendy,” Clint said, laughter in his voice.

“Thought you were gonna maybe go home with her,” Bucky mumbled, struggling to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Who, Jenna? Nah. Don't need to go home with the locals when I have all this to come back to,” Clint said. “I'm just teasing, Buck." Bucky felt a dangerous tug in his navel. Clint was just riling him up, Bucky knew, but the proximity was distracting him and crumbling his resolve. He turned away. The tightness in his chest threatened to suffocate him.

“Okay, what the fuck is your problem?” Clint asked, his voice suddenly sharp.

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Nothing, Clint.”

“No. No, we're talking about this,” Clint said. He jabbed Bucky hard in the back. “The whole point of this stupid trip was to get to spend time with you and you've been brooding and monosyllabic the whole goddamn time. I wanna know why!”

Bucky spun around and stared incredulously at Clint. All of the frustration that had been simmering for days boiled over. “You didn't want to spend time with me, you wanted an audience!” 

“Are you kidding? For the past two days, all I've wanted to do was make you smile! All I ever wanna do is make you smile.”

“So you drag me out to this ass-end-of-nowhere tourist trap hell and make fun of me? You make a pass at a college kid in a bar and make me watch?” Bucky shouted.

Clint's face twisted, fear and frustration evident on his features. He pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes and shook his head. “I can't do this right now, Buck.” He sat down on the edge of the curb. “I've been drinking, and you're mad at me, and... can we just go back to the motel? And not fight?” Clint asked desperately. 

Bucky swung around, the sound of his own heartbeat thudding in his ears. He couldn't take this anymore, this back and forth, it felt like he was going to explode. “I love you, you moron,” he shouted.

Clint's eyes went impossibly wide. “What?”

Bucky threw his hands into the air. “I love you,” he repeated, feeling foolish. “I am in love with you, I have been for months. And I thought maybe this trip was a chance to– I mean, you danced with me last night and I thought maybe...,” he trailed off weakly.

“Say it again,” Clint demanded.

“What?”

Clint stormed over to stand right in front of Bucky, nearly nose to nose. “You know what,” he challenged.

“I love you,” Bucky spat, and Clint tangled a hand into Bucky's hair and pulled him into a rough kiss.

Clint didn't stop kissing him until they'd stumbled back to the hotel, and then paused only long enough for them to fall into the room, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind them in their bid for the bed.

Bucky tugged his shirt off by the hem with a swift movement.

“That's just unfair,” Clint said.

Bucky frowned. He was mostly naked, just his henley around his raised forearms. “Huh?”

Clint gestured wildly, more-or-less encompassing Bucky's entire body with the wide swipe of his arms.

Bucky looked down at his body, and then back at Clint.

“You're like a fucking painting,” Clint said. “Except the arm,” he added thoughtfully.

“Arm's a bit of a turn-off, huh?”

“Oh no,” Clint said, shaking his head slowly. “No, the arm's awesome.” Clint ran the backs of his fingers down Bucky's sides. Bucky shivered. He closed his eyes almost involuntarily and tipped his head back. Clint seized the opportunity to tuck his face into the soft skin above Bucky's collar bone and began to trail gentle open mouth kisses up, up, up Bucky's neck.

“I love you,” Clint murmured. He let his teeth scrape against the delicate skin of Bucky's earlobe.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated, over and over like a prayer as climbed astride Clint's hips, punctuating every kiss with a frantic movement and a promise.

“I love you,” Clint whispered as they curled against the pillows, foreheads together as they fell asleep.

=

“I'm not good at this,” Clint murmured. The sun was just beginning to shine through the motel shades. Clint turned to face Bucky, pulling his knees up and seeking out the warmth of Bucky's body. He tucked his knees up into Bucky's abdomen. “I've ruined every relationship I've been in.”

Bucky hesitated. Clint met Bucky's eyes and tapped his own ears to indicate that he could hear him.

He pressed a soft kiss to Clint's forehead, cupped Clint's jaw in his hands. “I'm so gone for you,” he whispered against Clint's chapped lips.

“I want you,” Clint murmured against Bucky's mouth. Bucky made a soft noise of agreement and nipped at Clint's lower lip. He could feel the beginnings of Clint's smile. “I've wanted you for so long.”

“That's settled, then?” Bucky asked, arching a brow.

“Seems so,” Clint chuckled, maneuvering until he was between Bucky's knees.

“I've got stuff in my bag,” Bucky murmured in Clint's ear, “But I'm not getting up.”

“Optimistic,” Clint teased, but he was already halfway across the room to get to Bucky's duffle. He was noisy as ever, grumbling at his own shaking hands, and throwing his head back in laughter when the bed gave a horrid creak. But he also mouthed his affections into Bucky's skin, whispered praise as he worked Bucky open, gasped and groaned as he pushed into Bucky. Bucky caressed and pulled at Clint, clutching at firm muscles and soft hair, swallowing Clint's noises with deep kisses, keeping him close as they moved together.

When Bucky moaned, Clint looked triumphant. “That's perfect, you're perfect, Buck,” he murmured into Bucky's sweaty hair. He pressed gentle kisses to Bucky's temple as he curled close, rolling in long, slow thrusts. Bucky responded enthusiastically, grasping at Clint's shoulders, raking his fingernails down Clint's back

Bucky's thighs trembled where he cradled Clint's hips. He began to move with Clint, pushing his body to meet Clint's pace. He flexed his metal hand, pressing the cool fingertips into hard muscle of Clint's shoulders. “Come on,” he urged, desperately, close to Clint's ear, “Please, I've got you sweetheart.”

“Oh Buck,” Clint breathed, his thrusts becoming increasingly erratic.

Warmth pooled at the base of Bucky's spine, spread through his body. “Clint,” he panted, “I'm –,” Bucky gave a shuddering shout as his body tensed and tensed, pleasure coming in pulses and waves.

Clint followed quickly, his body stilling and shaking as he found completion. He breathed heavily, supporting his weight above Bucky. Bucky pulled at him until he was covering Bucky's body with his own. Bucky stroked his damp hair.

“So what next?” Clint asked, still a little out of breath.

“Shower. Then I'm driving,” Bucky replied.

=

The drive to Pennsylvania was heaven compared to crawling along Interstate 95 in Virginia. Bucky was even allowing the 'windows-down-to-rock-out-rule', and the muggy air was starting to give way to cooler mountain breezes.

“No, stop, I like this one!” Bucky shouted. Clint looked incredulous. “I'm serious, leave it here,” Bucky said, swatting at Clint.

“Eyes on the road! Hands at 10 and 2!” Clint exclaimed, holding the phone out of reach. “You're such a _dork._ ”

“It's a nice song!”

“It's _Journey_ ,” Clint said. “It's not even good Journey, this is just a...” Clint sputtered, " _power-ballad._

“It's on your phone!”

Clint sighed, but Bucky could see the corners of his mouth turning up, and he was definitely singing along.

=

They rolled to a stop in a dusty parking lot just off of a highway exit in the early afternoon.

“Are those giant Amish people?” Clint asked, hanging out of the window of the Range Rover to get a better look. Bucky had barely put the SUV in park before Clint was clambering out.

_Roadside America_ housed an enormous miniature town, complete with working trains, waterways, and airplanes, that had been built between 1935 –and Clint had wasted no time pointing out that Bucky was older than some of the miniatures here – and 1963. The building had two levels of viewing decks, both with buttons that made different parts of the town move. 

“You found me Americana heaven,” Clint said excitedly. “How did you even find this place?” He was running around testing out all of the features on the deck they were on. Clint asked. He had realized that if he moved fast enough, he could hit the buttons _just_ before the kids on the lower deck. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Internet,” he replied smugly. “Cut it out before they recognize you or something.”

“Not like they'd arrest me,” Clint said with a smile. He was leaning over the edge of the observation deck, watching a tiny moving truck dropping off furniture at a tiny house.

Bucky hooked his chin over Clint's shoulder. “I'd bail you out,” he said, and wrapped his arms around Clint.

Clint snorted and leaned back into his embrace.

=

Clint slammed Bucky into the door of their motel room. “Gotta open the door,” Bucky said, and fumbled for the key. Clint pushed his thigh between Bucky's legs and _moved._ “Oh,” Bucky gasped, and dropped the key.

Thankfully there was no one else around their hallway; it had been bad enough trying to check in with Clint's hands in his back pockets. Clint had a lot of appreciation for _Roadside America_ to share, apparently. Bucky felt bad, briefly, for the spectacle they were making, but somehow Clint's warm hands were making it hard to care about what anyone else might think.

“Shh, no, leave the key,” Clint laughed, trying to keep kissing Bucky and reach for the key at the same time. Bucky finally shoved Clint back and grabbed the key from the ground, forcing it into the door as Clint kept mouthing sloppy kisses against his neck.

“Holy shit,” Clint breathed, when the door finally swung open. He batted Bucky away and elbowed into the room. “Bucky, _look!_ Did you plan this?”

Bucky shrugged. “I don't even know what _this_ is,” he said.

“Magic Fingers, Buck! It's the American Dream!”

Clint stared  at the bed reverently. Bucky read the sign posted on the coin slot on the side of the bed:  


FOR YOUR COMFORT THIS BED IS EQUIPPED WITH THE SAME  _ MAGIC FINGERS  _ RELAXATION SERVICE AS 10,000 HOTELS AND MOTELS AROUND THE WORLD. 

IT QUICKLY CARRIES YOU INTO THE LAND OF  _ 'TINGLING RELAXATION AND EASE.' _

TRY IT! YOU'LL FEEL GREAT.

QUARTERS ONLY.

25¢ = 30 MIN

“American dream sure has changed since I was a kid,” Bucky quipped, but Clint was turning out his pockets. “What does it do?”

“Quarters, we need quarters,” Clint insisted distractedly as he pawed through his pockets and duffel bag. 

“Gonna have to make this fast, then,” Bucky said.

“Why's that?”

“Only got like, two quarters,” Bucky said, a small smile curling across his lips. Clint laughed brightly, and Bucky felt his stomach flip.

“Your pants, then,” Clint demanded, unbuttoning his own jeans and shimmying them off, “If we're on a budget, I want my money's worth.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and tossed his shirt across the room. “You're ridiculous,” he chuckled.

“You're wearing too many clothes. C'mon, Buck,” Clint urged. He dipped his fingers into the waistband of Bucky's jeans, his rough hands cool on Bucky's lower back.

“I can't believe we're doing this,” Bucky said. He shook his head with a wry smile and started trying to undo his fly. It was made much more difficult with the interference of Clint's clever fingers.

“Yeah we are,” Clint grinned wolfishly. “Alright, gimme your quarters.” Bucky rolled his eyes, kicked at the fabric pooled around his ankles, and then emptied all of the change from his pockets onto the bed. Clint started rifling through it to pull out the quarters.

When Clint was satisfied, he looked excitedly to Bucky. “Ready?” he asked.

Bucky shrugged. “As I'm gonna be, I guess.”

Clint began putting coins into the slot on the side of the bed.

Bucky couldn't have prepared himself for the Magic Fingers. The bed lurched to life with a tremendous creak and began to heave violently back and forth. The closest approximation to the noise it was making was the sound of construction in the city; Bucky could literally feel the floor vibrating under his feet.

Bucky's shoulders began to quake. He tried to hold back his laughter, biting the insides of his mouth and holding his breath, but this was too much – the bed had shaken the sheets loose and tossed the pillows onto the floor, and Clint could only stand and stare at it with his mouth agape.

Bucky's efforts to stifle his laughter only resulted in an obnoxious snort. He shook his head, his hair loose around his face, and started to laugh freely.

“This is amazing,” Clint breathed. He turned to Bucky with wide eyes, a grin splitting his face.

Bucky tried to speak, but he just kept laughing.

After five alarming minutes, the bed shuddered, thunked, and slammed to a stop, upending the last of the bedding and nearly knocking over the nightstand. The phone had been knocked off of its cradle on the nightstand and the dial tone sounded through the room. The fitted sheet was somehow still stretched across the mattress, the top sheet hanging precariously from a corner and the duvet was a lost cause. Bucky and Clint stood together in the sudden quiet, clutching at their stomachs, eyes streaming with tears of laughter.

A mischievous smirk crept across Clint's face. “Let's do it again,” he said, turning to look at Bucky. He looked so young and so happy and _alive,_ and Bucky felt so much affection for Clint that it threatened to overwhelm him. Clint was naked, save for his ratty socks and the flush across his tanned and scarred skin, and he looked for all the world like he had never been happier. Bucky felt loose and warm, and for the first time in days, a bit more like himself.

Bucky inhaled wheezily. “'Fraid I'm outta quarters,” he said, wiping his eyes.

“Shame,” Clint said, turning to kiss Bucky.

“I'm not getting on that bed, Barton,” Bucky said against Clint's jaw.

“Oh, fuck no,” Clint howled, and after a quick press of his lips, started gathering the discarded bedding to make a nest on the floor.

the end.

  


[fanmix here!](https://open.spotify.com/user/1258987682/playlist/19FRypZcI5mW59uZASmhGY)


	2. Epilogue

Clint wandered blearily into the kitchen at the compound, Lucky on his heels, and a blanket around his shoulders. “Morning,” he yawned. A few of the Avengers signed their 'good mornings', but Clint already had his back to the room, pouring a mug of coffee for himself and pulling leftover pizza from the refrigerator for Lucky.

He shuffled over to the stool where Bucky was sitting. Bucky looked up from his laptop and kissed Clint in greeting. He pointed at his screen.

It was an article from the Washingtonian:

**FOAMHENGE IS MOVING TO NORTHERN VIRGINIA**

Foamhenge is coming to Fairfax! The foam replica of the enigmatic English monument...

 

Clint looked at Bucky imploringly. _Not driving,_ he signed.

Bucky laughed, the kind of full-body thing that Clint chased as often as possible these days. Since their infamous Americana Summer Tour, Bucky'd flatly refused to drive anywhere, ever, but he laughed a lot more recklessly. Bucky shook his head emphatically, pointing at another tab where he had reserved plane tickets and an actual hotel room. 

_J-a-c-u-z-z-i or I'm out,_ Clint signed. He kissed the top of Bucky's head and fell into the stool beside him, grinning like a fool around his coffee cup while Bucky searched for hotel rooms. 

 


End file.
